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Page 64
Irving was always the literary man; he had the habits, the
idiosyncrasies, of his small genus. I mean that he regarded life not
from the philanthropic, the economic, the political, the philosophic,
the metaphysic, the scientific, or the theologic, but purely from the
literary point of view. He belongs to that small class of which Johnson
and Goldsmith are perhaps as good types as any, and to which America has
added very few. The literary point of view is taken by few in any
generation; it may seem to the world of very little consequence in the
pressure of all the complex interests of life, and it may even seem
trivial amid the tremendous energies applied to immediate affairs; but
it is the point of view that endures; if its creations do not mould
human life, like the Roman law, they remain to charm and civilize, like
the poems of Horace. You must not ask more of them than that. This
attitude toward life is defensible on the highest grounds. A man with
Irving's gifts has the right to take the position of an observer and
describer, and not to be called on for a more active participation in
affairs than he chooses to take. He is doing the world the highest
service of which he is capable, and the most enduring it can receive
from any man. It is not a question whether the work of the literary man
is higher than that of the reformer or the statesman; it is a distinct
work, and is justified by the result, even when the work is that of the
humorist only. We recognize this in the ease of the poet. Although
Goethe has been reproached for his lack of sympathy with the
liberalizing movement of his day (as if his novels were quieting social
influences), it is felt by this generation that the author of "Faust"
needs no apology that he did not spend his energies in the effervescing
politics of the German states. I mean, that while we may like or dislike
the man for his sympathy or want of sympathy, we concede to the author
the right of his attitude; if Goethe had not assumed freedom from moral
responsibility, I suppose that criticism of his aloofness would long ago
have ceased. Irving did not lack sympathy with humanity in the concrete;
it colored whatever he wrote. But he regarded the politics of his own
country, the revolutions in France, the long struggle in Spain, without
heat; and he held aloof from projects of agitation and reform, and
maintained the attitude of an observer, regarding the life about him
from the point of view of the literary artist, as he was justified in
doing.
Irving had the defects of his peculiar genius, and these have no doubt
helped to fix upon him the complimentary disparagement of "genial." He
was not aggressive; in his nature he was wholly unpartisan, and full of
lenient charity; and I suspect that his kindly regard of the world,
although returned with kindly liking, cost him something of that respect
for sturdiness and force which men feel for writers who flout them as
fools in the main. Like Scott, he belonged to the idealists, and not to
the realists, whom our generation affects. Both writers stimulate the
longing for something better. Their creed was short: "Love God and honor
the King." It is a very good one for a literary man, and might do for a
Christian. The supernatural was still a reality in the age in which they
wrote, Irving's faith in God and his love of humanity were very simple;
I do not suppose he was much disturbed by the deep problems that have
set us all adrift. In every age, whatever is astir, literature,
theology, all intellectual activity, takes one and the same drift, and
approximates in color. The bent of Irving's spirit was fixed in his
youth, and he escaped the desperate realism of this generation, which
has no outcome, and is likely to produce little that is noble.
I do not know how to account, on principles of culture which we
recognize, for our author's style. His education was exceedingly
defective, nor was his want of discipline supplied by subsequent
desultory application. He seems to have been born with a rare sense of
literary proportion and form; into this, as into a mould, were run his
apparently lazy and really acute observations of life. That he
thoroughly mastered such literature as he fancied there is abundant
evidence; that his style was influenced by the purest English models is
also apparent. But there remains a large margin for wonder how, with his
want of training, he could have elaborated a style which is
distinctively his own, and is as copious, felicitous in the choice of
words, flowing, spontaneous, flexible, engaging, clear, and as little
wearisome when read continuously in quantity as any in the English
tongue. This is saying a great deal, though it is not claiming for him
the compactness, nor the robust vigor, nor the depth of thought, of many
others masters in it. It is sometimes praised for its simplicity. It is
certainly lucid, but its simplicity is not that of Benjamin Franklin's
style; it is often ornate, not seldom somewhat diffuse, and always
exceedingly melodious. It is noticeable for its metaphorical felicity.
But it was not in the sympathetic nature of the author, to which I just
referred, to come sharply to the point. It is much to have merited the
eulogy of Campbell that he had "added clarity to the English tongue."
This elegance and finish of style (which seems to have been as natural
to the man as his amiable manner) is sometimes made his reproach, as if
it were his sole merit, and as if he had concealed under this charming
form a want of substance. In literature form is vital. But his case does
not rest upon that. As an illustration his "Life of Washington" may be
put in evidence. Probably this work lost something in incisiveness and
brilliancy by being postponed till the writer's old age. But whatever
this loss, it is impossible for any biography to be less pretentious in
style, or less ambitious in proclamation. The only pretension of matter
is in the early chapters, in which a more than doubtful genealogy is
elaborated, and in which it is thought necessary to Washington's dignity
to give a fictitious importance to his family and his childhood, and to
accept the southern estimate of the hut in which he was born as a
"mansion." In much of this false estimate Irving was doubtless misled by
the fables of Weems. But while he has given us a dignified portrait of
Washington, it is as far as possible removed from that of the smileless
prig which has begun to weary even the popular fancy. The man he paints
is flesh and blood, presented, I believe, with substantial faithfulness
to his character; with a recognition of the defects of his education and
the deliberation of his mental operations; with at least a hint of that
want of breadth of culture and knowledge of the past, the possession of
which characterized many of his great associates; and with no
concealment that he had a dower of passions and a temper which only
vigorous self-watchfulness kept under. But he portrays, with an
admiration not too highly colored, the magnificent patience, the courage
to bear misconstruction, the unfailing patriotism, the practical
sagacity, the level balance of judgment combined with the wisest
toleration, the dignity of mind, and the lofty moral nature which made
him the great man of his epoch. Irving's grasp of this character; his
lucid marshaling of the scattered, often wearisome and uninteresting
details of our dragging, unpicturesque Revolutionary War; his just
judgment of men; his even, almost judicial, moderation of tone; and his
admirable proportion of space to events, render the discussion of style
in reference to this work superfluous. Another writer might have made a
more brilliant performance: descriptions sparkling with antitheses,
characters projected into startling attitudes by the use of epithets; a
work more exciting and more piquant, that would have started a thousand
controversies, and engaged the attention by daring conjectures and
attempts to make a dramatic spectacle; a book interesting and notable,
but false in philosophy and untrue in fact.
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